Forceborn: Draft One
by Alexian Cale
Summary: ON INDEFINITE HIATUS! REVAMPED & REPOSTED! AU, 82 BBY. Seeking ultimate power over life and death, Darth Plagueis defies his Master, recruits a scheming apprentice, and threatens the balance of the Force itself.
1. Prologue

Prologue

_82 years before the Battle of Yavin_

Light burst out from behind the northern hemisphere of the rust-colored globe that was Zigoola, chasing oceans of shadow across the surface of the planet and then its three tiny moons, until it bathed the sleek chrome hull of the approaching starship in the advent of a new day.

Piercing in its intensity, the dawn temporarily dazzled the sight of Darth Plagueis, who flinched away from the transparisteel viewport that he'd been peering through. His eyes scrunched shut and he raised his massive hand to pinch the bridge of his long plateau of a nose between thumb and forefinger. As the sun-conjured specks of blindness danced from his vision, he turned back to regard the approaching world.

Though technically fixed within the galactic plane designated by cartographers as Wild Space, Zigoola, its trio of satellites, and the scarlet nebula that unfurled behind it, lazed close to the threshold of the Unknown Regions. Its location was relatively unique among planets: situated within a realm of space that was far from civilized, far from the reach of the Galactic Republic. For this reason, it was an ideal repository for the Sith order, which had been operating in secrecy for a millennium.

To Plagueis, Zigoola would have been a _perfect_ choice if not for the fact that the major shipyard world of Mon Cala was a veritable stone's throw away.

More than once during the standard century that comprised his apprenticeship under Darth Tenebrous, Plagueis had cautioned his Master to transfer Zigoola's vast Sith archive to another location, perhaps another planet, moon, or even a space station—something more controlled, more defensible, and more _remote_. But while Tenebrous had listened patiently, he'd remained steadfast in his support of Darth Zannah's original decision to utilize Zigoola.

Bane's apprentice certainly had her reasons for selecting the world, though Plagueis remained unconvinced by them: entrenched as they were in tradition and history, specifically regarding that of the infamous Darth Revan, for whom her late Master had all but deified in his reverence.

The fact that Revan ultimately played a hand in crippling the Sith's efforts at the time by reverting his allegiance to the Jedi was apparently of no consequence to him.

The ship's journey was almost complete. Plagueis noted that Zigoola's surface or, rather, the complex miasma of gasses that was its bloodstain-colored atmosphere—likely the result of long-term exposure to the particles of the neighboring nebula—had swelled to encompass the entirety of what was visible through the viewport, bullying aside the void of space and silver pockmarks of distance stars.

Following Plagueis's observation was a slight tremble that rippled through the length of the ship, alerting the Muun to the fact that the vessel had punctured the planetary atmosphere and was making its final descent. By all rights, Plagueis should not have detected the turbulence, nor would he have had he been an ordinary Muun. The vessel was equipped with cutting edge technology, courtesy of his prosperous alliance with a quiet subsidiary of Santhe/Sienar Technologies; equipment of the sort that maximized luxury and minimized interruption. The ship's hull had been retrofitted with prototype internal dampeners so refined that Plagueis could have directed the ship through the asteroid field of the Cron Drift itself without waking his pittin—figuratively, of course; Plagueis's allergies compelled him to limit his interaction with most animals.

But an ordinary Muun Plagueis was not, and his attunement to the Force—honed thoroughly over the past hundred years—afforded him physical sensitivity exponentially superior to that of mundane sentient life.

A second after the jostles ceased, a synthesized baritone gave voice to that which Plagueis had already experienced:

"Lord Plagueis, we've breached atmo. ETA: approximately two minutes."

"Thank you, Four-Dee," said Plagueis, wryly. He didn't bother pointing out that the Force had alerted him to such things even faster than the registration of the droid's own high-speed processes. Eleven-Dash-Four-Dee preferred to observe such niceties and had once explained to his master that while such intonations may seem redundant to the Muun, they were nonetheless an essential facet of the droid's function and would only cease if Plagueis deliberately adjusted his subroutine matrix. The idea had both horrified and offended Plagueis, who had since then tolerated Four-Dee's unnecessary reminders and alerts.

He understood that kindnesses were a critical part in the foundation of friendships.

"You're welcome, sir," responded Four-Dee, the acknowledgement devoid of vocal inflection. "Should I notify Lord Tenebrous?"

Plagueis's yellow eyes darted from the viewport to regard the angular durasteel body of the droid that had served him and his Master for decades in an official capacity as pilot, navigator, and medic. But more important to Plagueis were Four-Dee's services in _unofficial_ ways: for almost as long as he'd been a servant of the Sith, Four-Dee had been confidant, companion, and friend to Plagueis himself.

But to Tenebrous, the droid was nothing more than a tool; an expendable asset. And while Plagueis might have found it within him to indulge the droid's habits, Tenebrous had not—and perhaps _could_ not. His Master styled himself neither minimalist nor maximalist, but instead an 'essentialist'—and had historically reserved little patience for unnecessary prattle, particularly from the non-sentient.

It was only by Plagueis's intervening advocacy that Tenebrous hadn't tampered with Four-Dee's subroutines himself.

"No, that won't be necessary," answered Plagueis, as he locked gazes with the droid's photoreceptors—the glow of which was not unlike the yellow eyes of a Sith. How appropriate; little did Tenebrous realize that the droid had more in common with both of them than most beings could fathom. Plagueis placed the palm of his massive hand—which he'd been told more than once resembled a particularly large and unsettling spider—on Four-Dee's cold shoulder. "I'll get him."

Four-Dee gave the approximation of a nod and returned his head to the primary viewport, manipulating the ship's controls with two of his four hands. Plagueis turned and stepped through the cockpit's hatch, his rancor-leather boots echoing off the bulkhead as he navigated the miniature labyrinth of corridors that led to the closed door of his Master's quarters.

Plagueis reached out to rap a knuckle against it, but the door came alive, hissing and sliding back into the frame, opening Tenebrous's domain to him, and enabling him hear his Master's immediate beckon:

"You may enter."

Amused by his Master's subconscious habit of occasional theatrics, Plagueis dropped his arm and stepped through the threshold. His eyes swept across Tenebrous's sanctum, gleaning whatever insight he could about the man from the room.

The piles of holoreaders juxtaposed nicely with the stacks of ancient tomes—books with actual paper, paper from actual wood, wood from _real_ trees—but offered Plagueis nothing new: his Master's voracious appetite for reading was something that Plagueis both respected and shared. The lack of holoimage or portrait of any kind, too, was nothing new: his Master's existence was solitary and this, as well, was something Plagueis shared—though not without difficulty. Various weapons adorned the otherwise empty walls; instruments of death ranging an impressive spectrum from vibroblades to battleaxes to blasters to grenades to lightsabers. These stood testament to Darth Tenebrous's one and only outlet: his love of combat. But even this was something that Plagueis had heard Tenebrous rationalize cleverly over the years. Such sport enabled him to maintain his elite fighting prowess, as all Sith were compelled to do by Bane's dictum, and it offered him an opportunity to efficiently vent the bloodlust that Sith training inspired in most of its adherents. Such opportunities periodically exploited, Tenebrous argued, prevented one from devolving into a rage-filled psychopath.

This was commensurate with Bane's law, Plagueis knew. The days where the Sith were nothing more than the grandiose mass murders of the Republic's history texts were long over.

Perhaps the most peculiar practice that Tenebrous indulged was his habit of not making his bed, something that his apprentice did _not_ share. Plagueis observed that the sheets and comforter remained ruffled and haphazard and while though he often imagined that this was nothing more than an act of spite against some long dead parent, Tenebrous had explained that he rejected bed making as an outdated tradition initiated and perpetuated by vain and insecure elitists, citing the fact that rearranging the dressing to be more aesthetically pleasing made it neither cleaner nor more comfortable.

Petulant, perhaps, but the reasoning was sound. And to Tenebrous, reason was the standard by which all actions were measured.

"If the sight of it torments you so," murmured Tenebrous, "feel free to make it yourself."

Plagueis turned; Tenebrous was seated in a reading chair near the door, perusing a datapad.

"I would, Master," began Plagueis, accepting the obvious challenge, "but since I don't sleep here, what reason would I have to make it?" He paused and then quickly added, "Unless you're commanding me, of course."

The Bith's massive bulbous eyes—abyssal in their blackness—betrayed nothing, but his mouth quirked what passed for a smile among his species. "At last, you understand. But of course, it's not an order. There would be no reason for you to act in this case and therefore there is no order on my part for you to do so."

Plagueis moved deeper into the room to face his seated Master, standing straight and clasping his arms behind his back.

"You've always had a reason behind your orders, my lord," said Plagueis, equal parts observation and platitude.

Tenebrous's finger stopped moving over the datapad and he lifted his head to regard his disciple. "Exactly, my apprentice. How fortunate are you that I am not the sort of Master that plagued our order in the millennia before: arbitrary, capricious, even treacherous. Such a habit should enable you to place your trust in my orders, my plans, and my designs—_if_ you haven't already."

"Any doubt I might have had was expunged years ago," assured Plagueis. "Your methodology is inspirational to me, as both Sith and scientist. Before, I hoped to emulate you in the areas of swordsmanship and Force mastery. But now I seek most of all to imitate your intuition and judgment."

Tenebrous was still for the span of a few seconds before returning his gaze to the datapad and allowing his finger to resume its scrolling motion. "You've been a most capable disciple all these years, Lord Plagueis. I'm sure you'll get there, eventually."

Plagueis detected the slight emphasis on the final word, likely intended to be registered twofold: first as a reminder of Tenebrous's own supremacy—his ostensible superiority in the elements of the Sith that Plagueis had mentioned; and second as a threat to not challenge the claim any time soon. Plagueis opened his mouth to respond, but reflexively glanced to the weapons that littered the room and then to Tenebrous, sitting relaxed and seemingly unperturbed by the fact that he was in his apprentice's potentially murderous reach.

Surely there was a reason for _that_, too.

"Eventually," said Plagueis in decision, nodding.

"And the reason for your presence here?" queried Tenebrous distractedly. "Which I assume is neither a social call nor indulgence of your obsessive need for cleanliness?"

"We've breached atmosphere and—"

Tenebrous's sharp exhale interrupted Plagueis and his Bith Master's head shook slowly. "You're picking up your droid's ill habits. Or do you think that I somehow failed to detect the patently obvious?"

"You may have been distracted with your—"

"My sensitivity to the Force is not so tenuous as to be blunted by this," reprimanded Tenebrous, lifting the datapad. He glared at Plagueis for a moment before lowering his hand. "Your bond with the machine has perplexed me from the beginning, but your susceptibility to its influence—your use of platitudes, observation of trivial niceties, and unnecessary inclusionist tendencies as they relate to the droid—_frustrates_ me."

Plagueis clenched his jaw in irritation but endured the criticism in silence. Tenebrous became quiet and continued his inspection of the datapad. Plagueis was initially wary of leaving, but grasped that his Master would not have verbally dismissed him—there'd be no _reason_ to vocalize it, since the Bith was apparently immune to distraction. He began to step out of the hatch when Tenebrous's voice caused him to stop before his boot touched the floor.

"As your Master," began Tenebrous, slowly, "I am bound by Darth Bane's authority to prepare you for the galaxy, to purge you of weakness. Whether or not you allow yourself to realize it, your friendship with the droid is unnatural and potentially symptomatic of a larger, more dangerous issue. If you continue on your present course, such habits will doom you. Mark my words."

His Master inhaled deeply. "But I will do my best to aid you in this matter, Lord Plagueis. I'll emancipate you from the automaton: the droid is to remain in the ship; we'll conduct our business alone. And should you try to resist me on this, I'll not just erase certain subroutines—I'll terminate him _entirely_, from software to hardware."

Plagueis's grip on the frame of the hatch tightened and his raised leg began to quiver as adrenaline pumped liberally through his system. His Master had issued a death threat to Four-Dee and Darth Tenebrous _never_ made threats he wasn't prepared to enforce. The Bith had a personal kill count in the triple digits; sentient, organic life that society viewed to be infinitely more valuable than any machine. The time had come where the affection of the apprentice for the object would not be sufficient to dissuade the Master from destroying it; indeed, that affection would likely be the _cause_ of the destruction.

In a millisecond that spanned a lifetime, Plagueis considered ending the threat at the source. _Killing_ Tenebrous. There were options—the weapons that lined the interior would be the most logical choice. Safely outside Tenebrous's quarters, Plagueis could hide behind the durasteel bulkhead and use the Force. He could rip the array of vibroblades and battleaxes from their mounts and mutilate his Master as the Bith reclined in his plush chair. He could maneuver the blasters as though they were puppets on marionettes, setting Tenebrous in their sights and manipulating their triggers—reducing his arrogant Master to nothing but ruined gore as he threatened from his throne. He could summon the grenade and pull the pin simultaneously, squeezing it with the Force, detonating it in his Master's face before the callous Bith could conjure Force shields sufficient enough to repulse it.

He could even snatch the lightsabers from the wall and incite them in a dazzling display of coordinated telekinesis—as Darth Traya was alleged to have done in her battle against Meetra Surik, the so-called Jedi Exile, thousands of years before—utterly dismembering the haughty Master who threatened Plagueis's only friend—

A tremor—not _in_ the Force, but felt through it—snapped him out of his lethal contemplation. The ship had landed.

Suddenly and completely aware, Plagueis stepped out into the corridor and raised his hand to his damp forehead. The Muun squared his shoulders and made his way back to the cockpit as he heard his Master rise from the chair.

Plagueis's discipline compelled him to drive away his treacherous thoughts, and he mentally snarled at himself for becoming so enraged by Tenebrous's goading threat. This was exactly what the Bith had expected and _sought_—a vulnerability to exploit, to dangle as insurance against his increasingly powerful apprentice. Truly Darth Tenebrous was not only a Sith Master, but a _masterful Sith_.

Then, an epiphany—

A realization not unlike Zigoola's dawn, in its full potency.

Just as Plagueis had been goaded into action, just when he'd actually considered multiple, immediate avenues of ending his Master's life—an action that, in hindsight, Tenebrous had been almost certainly prepared for—the Force itself had intervened, allowing him a moment to come to his senses. Had Plagueis committed himself in reality what he had pondered in theory, he'd very likely be dead.

Yet the Force stopped him. More accurately, from a certain point of view, it had saved him.

Plagueis halted just outside the entrance to the cockpit. He knew that the Jedi had long espoused a philosophy that hinted towards a seemingly ridiculous belief: that the Force was more than just an energy field. That it was, in some respects, sentient. That it was a phenomenon that guided, directed, and maneuvered both beings and events towards a mysterious end.

That it had a will.

The scientist within Plagueis had long incited him to scoff at such a notion. But now, he wasn't sure. Was it possible that the Force could be both tool and god? It seemed unlikely, even farfetched—but Plagueis could not help but feel as though he had just experienced the saving grace of some ethereal protector. He vowed to ruminate over this further.

His thoughts briefly returned to Tenebrous. Plagueis recalled specifically the Bith's casual expectation that he and his apprentice would one day be equals. Plagueis knew that that day was fast approaching, and comforted himself with the conclusion both Master and pupil had reached:

Eventually.

But until then, Plagueis could wait. For there was still work to be done.


	2. Strike Back

Chapter One:

Strike Back

Plagueis entered the cockpit with more vigor than when he'd left it, energized both by the residual adrenaline coursing through his system from the near-confrontation with his Master and the implications of the Force-delivered epiphany that had interrupted it. He acknowledged that now was not the time for such contemplations, wary as he was of Tenebrous somehow divining what had transpired either through his command of the Force or his equally formidable intellect, but the timing of the disturbance was simply too peculiar to ignore.

Was it, perhaps, a consequence of their decision to journey to Zigoola? The world was strong in the Force, specifically Bogan, as a result of the temple's archives. Or, more ominously, was the epiphany brought on by the _mission_ itself, not the destination?

Plagueis cradled his chin and pondered this as quietly—and quickly—as he could. The entire trip had only been undertaken after weeks of entreaties by him to his Master, both advising and pleading that the two dedicate more of their time and effort to the investigation that had ensnared the Bith since the earliest days of his apprenticeship. Though Tenebrous had often derided Plagueis's curiosity as dangerous obsession, he had nonetheless agreed to the pilgrimage—citing the fact that they had been neglecting Bane's edict to periodically visit the archives, marinating themselves in a rare Bogan nexus, and exploring the wealth of lore that was its source.

Unlike his Master, the reason for the trip didn't matter in the slightest to Plagueis, as long as it provided him the excuse he needed to explore his hunch. But if that was the source of the disturbance, how was he to interpret it? Was it a clue that Plagueis was on the right track, beginning his search on Zigoola and not Korriban, Ziost, or other worlds like them? Was the sensation that stayed his impulsive hand a hint that he would need his Master's expertise in the time to come?

Or was it the third and most attractive interpretation of all: that the Force itself was offering its assent to Plagueis, perhaps suggesting coyly that it would—rather than obstruct—_aid_ him in his endeavor? A search that could potentially grant him an understanding of the Force and a mastery over it that would be unprecedented.

Was it that the Force itself was at last prepared to reveal itself in its entirety to one of its adepts?

A heavy weight came to rest against Plagueis's shoulder, hurling him from his thoughts, and infusing him with such panic that his right hand reflexively gripped cold metal—the pommel of the lightsaber dangling from his utility belt.

His yellow eyes darted to the source of the intrusion, apprehensive of its source, but relaxed when his vision beheld a limb of durasteel, not of flesh. It was Four-Dee, not Tenebrous.

"Lord Plagueis, are you well?"

"Better than ever, old friend," grinned Plagueis. He released the pommel and exhaled, willing two of his three hearts to resume their typical lethargy.

Four-Dee's photoreceptors brightened, betraying his misgivings.

"I'm simply looking forward to what awaits within the archive," assured Plagueis, waving aside the droid's dubious inspection. "It's not often that circumstance allows us to visit. That's all."

"Your vitals have normalized," Four-Dee conceded, before demurring: "but they briefly spiked—symptomatic of a panic attack."

"You simply detect chemical evidence of my enthusiasm," objected Plagueis. He paused and arched an eyebrow at the droid. "But while we're on the subject, why is it that my privacy is so casually invaded? Am I some sort of specimen in a petri dish?"

"Not at all," reasoned the droid. "But I _am_ tasked with monitoring your physical health, Lord Plagueis. To ignore such readings or, worse yet, to not take them at all would be a violation of my service and a betrayal of function."

That the topic had shifted from his bio-readings to a clarification of duty satisfied Plagueis. He knew that the droid wouldn't press further.

"True," sighed Plagueis. "Forgive me, Four-Dee. How can I object when your scrutiny is clearly born from concern? Dereliction of that sort would betray more than your duty; it would betray our friendship. I'll bear this in mind in the future."

Four-Dee's photoreceptors dimmed as though in conclusion, but the droid said nothing.

"But on the subject of duty," began Plagueis slowly, "I regret to inform you that you must remain aboard the ship while my Master and I conduct our business."

He offered a sympathetic smile when the droid gave a slight nod.

"As you command, Lord Plagueis."

_No, as _Tenebrous _does_, the Muun corrected silently. "I'll return soon, my friend."

"Not if you keep wasting time with prattle."

Plagueis turned to acknowledge the third speaker, unsurprised. Bogan had alerted him of his Master's approach even as Four-Dee had begun to raise questions about his briefly spiked vitals. The Force hardly afforded its users with omniscience or infallible clairvoyance, particularly with respect to the detection of mundane organics and droids, but someone with the tremendous metaphysical stature of Darth Tenebrous would be hard pressed indeed to cloak himself from the awareness of any moderately trained adept. Likewise, it was this ability that had enabled Tenebrous to execute his theatrical flourish, by sensing his apprentice's earlier approach with such accuracy that he was able to open the door just as Plagueis had been prepared to knock.

A gamut of dubious sources—ranging from ancient legends to modern holofiction—had perpetrated the notion that Jedi and Sith could conceal their sensitivity to the Force from one another at will. It was a tantalizing prospect and one that had been thoroughly investigated by both orders for millennia. But after exhaustive experimentation in recent centuries by their predecessors, Plagueis knew that such a phenomenon was impossible. Both he and his Master had come to regard any claim contrary with incredulity. How could constant use of the Force _conceal_ such activity from those whose senses were trained to _detect_ use of the Force? It was paradoxical in the extreme.

But that wasn't to say that the effect could not be replicated by artificial means. He knew that the answer lay not in the Force, but in chemicals and artifacts.

Of the sort that were in abundance on Zigoola.

"Apologies, Master," offered Plagueis. He bowed his head deferentially. "I'm ready."

Tenebrous shrugged on a cloak which was both a few shades darker than the dirt-colored robes worn prominently by Jedi Knights and a few sizes larger than what was necessary to cover Tenebrous's almost emaciated form.

"Then lower the ramp and let's be on with it."

Sprawled out on the heart of a plateau, the Sith temple was an unremarkable structure. Oblong and built from reddish-black stone, the facility was large, but not especially magnificent. Its façade was minimalist in all ways: no windows, one entrance, and lacking the grandeur of religious sites across the galaxy—including the Jedi temple on Coruscant. In this non-descript regard, Plagueis felt that the building would have been just as appropriate as some sort of political center on some backwater world. A nest for bureaucrats, perhaps? But the time for unnecessary grandiosity among the Sith had long passed, Plagueis knew, and so the temple functioned well—a credit to Darth Revan's foresight, he supposed, since Bane's records intimated that the masked enigma had foreseen a time when the Sith would come to rely on stealth and subtlety rather than overt displays of martial power.

Marching awkwardly down the starship's exit ramp, he noted that a slight breeze tugged impotently at Tenebrous's heavy cloak. Four-Dee had, en route, provided a weather report transmitted from the temple and Plagueis recalled that the details were typical for the planet, which wasn't known for its diverse climate, with the exception of the occasional sandstorm and tornado.

But when Plagueis reached the bottom and was fully exposed to all that was Zigoola, he was suddenly buffeted—as though a mighty gale had swept the land. It was only by nature of his quick reflexes that he'd gripped one of the ramp's hydraulic legs and kept himself from toppling over in the dust. Smiling wryly, he reoriented himself and stepped ahead of his Master, out from beneath the shadow of their starship. He closed his eyes and raised his hands in supplication, basking in the energy of the world.

As with any celestial body that hosted a modicum of life, the Force had a presence emanating from within the world. Planets with high concentrations of organic beings were known to exude Force energy of a different sort—the kind that Jedi, since time immemorial, had referred to as the Living Force. One of the most fundamental principles espoused by both sects was that the Force was intrinsically bound to natural life. By Plagueis's estimation, the Republic capital of Coruscant, known to be the most populated world in the galaxy, would be a peerless nexus of such energy. For that reason alone, Plagueis knew, the Jedi had been determined to safeguard the planet from their enemies. Darth Zannah, who had infiltrated the order's temple during her apprenticeship to Bane—a story that had awed Plagueis in his youth—had explained in her teachings that the building's very design—a ziggurat, Plagueis recalled—seemed designed on a very specific metaphysical level to harness Coruscant's reservoir of Living Force energy. With this in mind, Plagueis had reconsidered Darth Malgus's decision to destroy the previous temple during Coruscant's brief occupation by the Sith Empire with newfound approval. Their numbers depleted, morale shattered, and headquarters obliterated, the remaining Jedi had opted to abandon the capital and regroup on their historic homeworld of Tython in the Deep Core.

In previous discussions, Tenebrous had offered this to Plagueis as an explanation as to why their predecessors were so innately drawn to Coruscant; that the Sith weren't intent on seizing that world due to mere political significance, but because they had been drawn to it on an indefatigably primal level; like an insect to light.

It fell to Bane's order to _resist_ the lure until such a time that they were absolutely prepared for the inevitable task of supplanting the Jedi, lest they, like the doomed bug, fall victim to the treacherous shine.

Plagueis opened his eyes and gazed up into the sky, which unlike more picturesque planets such as Alderaan, was most unwelcome: sunlight cast through the nearby nebula gave the heavens an illusory visage—scarlet as though the sky had been mortally wounded by some sort of cosmic catastrophe.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Tenebrous as he moved to stand beside his apprentice.

"You honestly think so?" was Plagueis's incredulous response.

"Why else would I have said it?"

"Not to wax poetic, but the sky festers as though it were an open wound," murmured Plagueis. "Though the _sensation_ of the world is another matter all together."

"Yes, the world is strong with Bogan," agreed Tenebrous, "in a way that few worlds are. I don't know if I have words adequate enough to convey the difference between what we feel here and what is to be felt on Korriban and the others."

Plagueis paused in consideration. "Cleaner?"

Tenebrous closed his eyes and pondered in the word, as though seeking approval for it in the Force. "Possibly… yes. Well said, my apprentice. Yes, cleaner will suffice. Not _stronger_, necessarily, but cleaner. Crisper."

"Appropriate, I think," mused Plagueis. "After all, Zigoola is not this way because of rotting corpses or the residue of the ancient Sith. Nor has its secrets been plundered by the corrupt, the greedy, or the enemy. What is here is because of the archives—the lore we've compiled over the years."

"Indeed," nodded Tenebrous. "We have the wisdom of Lady Zannah to thank for that, and the intuition of Revan before her. If they'd selected another world, perhaps one closer to the Core"—it was there that Tenebrous's tone briefly flared in accusation; Plagueis rolled his eyes—"the archives would not have endured. Zigoola was an inspired choice."

Plagueis didn't offer a reply and instead allowed his yellow eyes to scan the surroundings, tracking the movements of various reptiles darting and slithering within the vast expanse of cheerless scrub vegetation that stretched to the horizon. Whatever the inspiration was, it certainly was _not_ the view.

During her apprenticeship under Darth Bane, Zannah had become intimately familiar with the legend that was Revan. After she had assumed the mantle of Sith Master and the responsibility of perpetuating the order fell to her, she scoured the galaxy in search of a location that could function as a Sith reliquary. Her quest compelled her to investigate her late Master's extensive series of journals and it was from them that she became aware of the existence of Zigoola, which had been discovered and colonized by agents of Darth Revan during the outbreak of his war against the Republic.

At its zenith, Revan's fiefdom encompassed a little more than a third of civilized space—but Mon Cala supposedly marked its farthest reaches, the extent of the his thrust towards Wild Space.

Fortunately for the Sith, this conclusion was errant: it was _Zigoola_, not Mon Cala, that was the true outlier of Revan's conquered territory. This truth might have been lost to time had fate not transpired to guide Bane to Lehon, where he found Revan's holocron; and during the fateful encounter with the long-dead turncoat in which Bane was first introduced to the philosophy that would inspire him to fashion the Rule of Two, Revan had mentioned Zigoola.

He had revealed to the captivated Bane that Zigoola was to be the launching point of concentrated expeditions into Wild Space following the Republic's defeat. If Revan's simulacrum had explained to his successor the reason behind these planned expeditions, Bane never articulated them either in writing or speech. Plagueis had reckoned that the plans found their origin in Revan's well known penchant for exploration and investigation; his Master, on the other hand, had to Plagueis a justification born from Revan's infamous sense of strategy: that he had been searching for evidence of the so-called "True Sith"—Vitiate's empire—and Zigoola was but the first stage in the renegade Jedi's plan to comb through the void of unknown space until he found them. Plagueis had been forced to concede that this was the more likely scenario.

In either case, Revan had kept Zigoola's existence and importance secret to all but a select few. And the handful that he did trust with the sensitive information, he clearly did so out of pure necessity. Tenebrous had once presented a convincing argument that suggested Revan's two most highly placed subordinates—his oldest friend and would-be-successor, Darth Malak, and his most talented general, Meetra Surik—weren't among these few, since the planet and its archives were never upon by Malak during his brief seizure of Revan's empire, nor was it surrendered to the Jedi order or the Republic following Surik's renouncement of the Sith.

Relishing in the enhancement provided by Zigoola's planetary nexus, Plagueis and Tenebrous resumed their brief walk from the starship to the temple, down a path marked on either side by a series of twenty obelisks of various sizes. The smallest were as tall as the average human, the rest would have towered over the tallest Wookiees, but all were pyramidal in shape—evoking images of the hundreds of holocrons within the temple's walls.

Plagueis's stride slowed somewhat as his gaze fell upon the runes and hieroglyphics that had been etched into the stone, remembering that the first time he'd seen them, his mastery of the Sith language was insufficient to comprehend the subtleties of their meaning. But Tenebrous was a masterful teacher and Plagueis had always been a quick study; now he grasped the words and their full context with ease. The hieroglyphs depicted a cautionary tale concerning the journey of two siblings whose exploration of a vast jungle led them to unwittingly stumble upon a nest of secluded predators. In their haste to escape, the siblings led the animals back to their camp, and the ensuing massacre claimed the lives of the brother and many friends.

He imagined that such things were what the Republic likely considered to be Sith bedtime stories and they appealed to both Revan's early years as a Jedi and his macabre sense of humor.

Tenebrous's lazy shuffle slowed to a halt, steeped in the shadow of the temple's edifice. Rather than a welcoming door, the entrance was closed by a massive slab of some ancient element likely chosen by Revan for its durability; it loomed over the Sith Lords in excess of ten meters and no switch, panel, or plate by which one could open it was in sight. Plagueis knew that it would be a relatively easy task for either Sith Lord to remove the door by Force—pun intended—even without the nexus saturating them with excess Bogan. And when Plagueis had first visited, he'd moved to do just that—to crush the slab or tear it free from the threshold—when Tenebrous had blasted him aside with Force lightning. _You impatient, reckless _idiot, his Master had roared, _to attack the door is to attack the temple—you'd _destroy _the wealth within!_

And as Plagueis had quaked and smoldered in the after effects of the sudden burst, Tenebrous had explained to him that the temple had been cursed—that Revan, accounting for the possibility that the Republic would locate and attempt to infiltrate the temple, had conducted a ritual that would destroy the facility if any attempted to forcibly bypass the entrance.

He recalled thinking at the time, _how are we to get in? Did Revan expect us to walk through the walls?_

As if sensing his thoughts, Tenebrous chose that moment to turn and regard Plagueis, and would have likely squinted in consideration had he the ability.

"This is your mission," said the Bith, folding his arms. "_You_ do it."

Plagueis blinked. "Me?"

"Have the droid examine your ears when we return," scowled Tenebrous. "Your hearing is faltering."

Plagueis opened his mouth to respond—but closed it reflexively. So accustomed to his Master's incessant demand for reason was he that receiving what appeared to be an arbitrary order made him hesitate, urged him to grasp for an obvious basis for the order. Every single time they'd visited Zigoola in the past, Tenebrous had been the one to open the door. Perhaps this was simply a test designed to evaluate Plagueis's abilities? Or was it a rite of passage, an honor given to him by an otherwise exacting instructor?

Answerless, he shrugged the questions away and inclined his head in a respectful bow as Tenebrous backed away, before turning back to face the distant ship. His eyes shifted to each row of obelisks, calculating the rough estimate of their weight and scanning the hieroglyphics.

Then, he inhaled, and slowly raised his hands—fingers curled and clawed. All forty of the massive pillars trembled in their granite holdings, hurling aside loose pebbles and stones, and sweeping years of collected sand off their surfaces—which coalesced into dissipating red clouds.

Confident that his grip was gentle enough to accommodate the ancient stones, Plagueis lifted his hands higher. The obelisks mirrored the movement—rising free of their holdings, into the open air, as though they were straw puppets dancing on his clutched strings. Plagueis risked a glance over his shoulder to Tenebrous, who had retreated into the umbra of the temple's shadow. His globular eyes seemed to meet his apprentice's gaze and he nodded once in approval.

Satisfied that he was thus far passing any potential test engineered by his cunning Master, Plagueis returned to the task at hand.

At his direction, the obelisks began to move, spinning and shifting and floating away, rearranging themselves in mid-air. Some at the front moved to the back, some at the back moved to the front, some moved towards the middle, and others remained where they were. The synchronicity of the exchange was not unlike the movement of cogs and gears within machines like Four-Dee and there was, he supposed, an understated beauty to it.

The dance lasted less than a minute. Satisfied that the rearrangement was complete, Plagueis delicately lowered the obelisks into their holdings. He twisted his neck and exhaled. Lifting and maneuvering objects with a combined approximate weight of forty tons was an impressive feat of telekinesis, one that Plagueis knew he'd struggle with on almost any other world. But on Zigoola, he could dwell in the deep pool of Bogan and allow himself to become buoyant in it—it washed away the fatigue that had threatened to obstruct him.

He felt the approach of Tenebrous and the two Sith gazed now at the stones. Where before the obelisks depicted a cautionary tale, now they offered an account of victory. Rearranged, they depicted a triumphant version of the siblings' journey. One in which they knowingly and deliberately led the jungle predators back to their encampment, whereupon the armed and waiting expedition force annihilated the animals without suffering a single casualty. With their greatest threat removed, the siblings and their cohorts were unopposed as they laid claim to the jungle, driving the wildlife back, and colonizing their surroundings in what would be a promising kingdom.

All things considered, a much more pleasant fate for the interlopers, which suited Plagueis just fine.

He'd always enjoyed happy endings.

"Well done, Lord Plagueis," congratulated Tenebrous. He spread his raised hands, gesturing to his apprentice's handiwork. "Was the sensation of your brief apotheosis not glorious?"

"Truly, Master," agreed Plagueis. "It was exhilarating—beyond anything I've ever felt in previous visits. Merely feeling the augmentation is nothing compared to _experiencing_ it while using the Force. Fatigue, weakness, difficulty… it's as though these things don't exist for us here."

"If only we could lure the Jedi to us here, eh?" Tenebrous chuckled. "Think of how many of them we could slay barehanded…"

Plagueis watched as Tenebrous stared at his long fingers. Then, as if in decision, the Bith stabbed both hands to the sky and Plagueis heard a burst of sound that was at once many things: the tearing of paper, the cracking of vertebrae, the crashing of broken tree trunks—all these things simultaneously and amplified—and then Tenebrous's hands vanished within a sudden burst of light so powerful that Plagueis twisted away in alarm—

Then, an explosive impact detonated, crashing against his eardrums and hurling him to the ground. Plagueis jerked his hands in front of his face reflexively, cocooning himself in half a dozen layers of rapidly conjured Force shields—so many and so strong that they distorted his vision, warping the landscape, the obelisks, the ship, and the figure Tenebrous himself—who stood as his cloak was whipped violently around by sudden gales, and from each of the Sith Master's hands burst forth a dozen jagged bolts of dark-violet electricity—not at Plagueis, but instead the crimson sky.

The bolts raced towards the red smears that were clouds, scattering them, and hurtling past towards space itself.

Propped up in the dust by his elbows, Plagueis gaped at Tenebrous and his lightning until the last arcs fled the Bith's fingers. His yellow eyes followed the bolts as they vanished into the sky and he heard the series of ensuing atmospheric crashes that echoed across the landscape. As he turned his head to regard his Master, he felt moisture on his skin, and was unsure if the perspiration owed to the initial fear that _he_ was the intended recipient of the storm or to the likelihood that the Force-based lightning was playing havoc with the skies and atmosphere, superheating the air to such an extent that its effects could be felt by Plagueis on the ground, behind his Force shields.

He turned to cast his distorted stare on Tenebrous, who shifted in his direction. His Master clenched his hands together tightly, with purplish tendrils lingering, dancing from knuckle to knuckle. The flaps of flesh that constituted his Master's cheeks quivered, indicating that the Bith was breathing laboriously. Plagueis initially attributed it to the effort of summoning the exceedingly deadly burst of lightning, but recalled that such Force exhaustion was highly unlikely on Zigoola, and concluded that it was something else entirely.

Tenebrous stirred then, as though he detected the very thought, and cast his black eyes to his apprentice. Plagueis stiffened and deduced that his death was imminent, that Tenebrous's already prodigious aggression had been bolstered by the Bogan nexus just as tremendously as his reserve of powers, to such an extent that he was beyond patience, beyond restraint, beyond _reason_.

Plagueis might have found that amusing had the circumstances been different.

But why now? In all the times past that they'd visited Zigoola together, he'd seen nothing of this in his Master. Nothing this deranged. Tenebrous had embodied self-control, commensurate with Darth Bane's philosophy. Could it be that the taint of the Bogan nexus had at last worn down the barriers of will that his Master had crafted, corrupting him as Jedi propaganda and myth had long claimed such things would?

Plagueis's eyes shifted in horror as another possible answer gripped his mind—the epiphany! What if the disturbance in the Force that he had felt so recently had not been delivered to save _his_ life, but Tenebrous's? What if the Bith had not been suspecting, had not been prepared, and would have fallen victim to Plagueis's sudden attack?

But that would mean—

That would mean that the Force _prevented_ him from exploiting the moment—had obstructed him from seizing the mantle.

Plagueis blinked.

That would mean that the Force was not ready at all to reveal itself to him, but had instead decided that the threat of Plagueis's investigations could no longer be entertained.

The realization that the galaxy's most potent energy field had seemingly conspired against him impacted Plagueis with more force than the burst of his Master's electric assault on the heavens. He felt a swirling smorgasbord of sensations: embarrassment, that he had misinterpreted the epiphany so utterly; anger, that he'd missed his true opportunity to kill Tenebrous and avoid all this; pride, that the Force itself regarded him as such a threat; frustration, that he would never be allowed to see his pursuits fulfilled; and concern for Four-Dee—the droid would assuredly be the next victim to suffer Tenebrous's maniacal wrath.

He snapped back to the present. Glaring up at his Master, he saw Tenebrous raise his chin in finality and reach out a hand towards his apprentice, fingers splayed, and residual tendrils of purplish lightning dancing from knuckle to knuckle.

It was then that the miasma of mixed sensation funneled into a feeling of hardened resolve. Plagueis began to draw upon the Force like a suffocating man gasping for air. At his command, the pommel of his lightsaber flipped into his hand, and his fingers quickly and tightly embraced it, as though hand and weapon were two old friends preparing for the end together.

His yellow eyes found his Master's black ones and as the hand stretched inevitably towards him, the menacing energy hissing tauntingly, Plagueis vowed that he would not go down easily.

He would surrender to neither the Sith nor the Force.

And if it was a fight both sought, Darth Plagueis was determined to strike back.


	3. Author's Announcement!

Apologies ladies & gentlemen for my extreme tardiness. This is _not_ a new chapter, **but** for those still interested in the story—the prologue of the revamped story will be posted the _Forceborn_ title shortly after I complete this announcement. I considered deleting this version but ultimately decided to keep it for posterity. Who knows, some or all of you may prefer the trajectory of the old story to the new one.

The new draft of _Forceborn_ is, in my opinion, markedly improved over what I had planned for the previous version. Loquaciousness and a misplaced sense of perfectionism kept me from updating and I realized the true flaw was in the narrative. So while the new _Forceborn_ deals with the central premise of James Luceno's fantastic novel _Darth Plagueis_, it will directly deal with other extant material: the films, _Star Wars: The Clone Wars_, the Legacy of the Force & Fate of the Jedi series, and even supplementary material like Dan Wallace's _Book of Sith_. I can't say that I have an attention to detail like Mr. Luceno, but I have crafted a storyline derived from all points in canon that will hopefully intrigue the well-read Star Wars fan and tell a better story about the galaxy's most evil Sith Lord and his enigmatic Master.

Enjoy!

~A.


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